The Score
by jink
Summary: Sherlock gets himself checked into rehab by Mycroft and insists on continuing his self destructive ways. John visits to give him a once over and a scolding. Sherlock has other plans.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: I seem to be a one fic pony in terms of content. I know what grade of indulgence I thrive on-Sherlock getting owned. No, it isn't very challenging and quite cliched but I consider my writing to be a familiar pillow in which to settle in and relax. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!_

_This is a semi SLASH story but very fluffy on those terms. Nothing hardcore._

**THE SCORE**

John was known to have exquisite rows. Being a servant of the people, he'd often had to haggle, coax and bargain patients over the general state of their health. To vaccinate or not to vaccinate? To remove or not to remove? He was intrigued by such bartering, knowing he would eventually prevail in the end. Sensible people rarely argued with a man wearing a stethoscope. The army had been a different animal, of course. Lose a limb or leave your entrails as souvenirs across the desert. No art to that at all.

In real time he could expect Sherlock to take up to several hours or even days to acknowledge another presence quietly shuffling about the flat leading its own life. Making tea. Washing dishes. Watching telly. He had a superb talent for drowning out the world even if the world was beating him over the head.

He was sitting up in bed when John entered the abysmally sterile room, absorbed in a tatted book by a Dutch philosopher. There was privacy to be had here and a chair which were minimal for what John was about to pursue. Necessary and unkind words would be flung but John had walked the killing fields of Afghanistan and tied limbs back on men's bodies. Dignity would be just as easy to realign. Forgoing the courtesy of a nod, John set his duffel bag on the floor next to the chair and seated himself.

Sherlock paid him no mind at first, even with his body blocking the lamplight. John accepted this show of pettiness and waited.

Exactly four minutes and twelve seconds later, Sherlock spoke.

"I'm a thoughtless twat with no inkling of how lucky I am." Sherlock's eyes never left the book. "How was Sarah this morning?"

John checked himself before answering.

"Oh fine. Sarah's ah...just fine." His hands worked unconsciously on the plastic armrests.

"There's gloss on your collar. Clairol by the sheen, dusty rose. Expensive taste your mademoiselle." Sherlock flashed a curt grin into the book. His lips were utterly bloodless.

"You look like you could use some yourself, mate." John chided. Sherlock didn't see the humor in it, naturally. His face fell in grand melancholy but he did not put down the blasted book.

"I'm bored."

"You're ill." John indicated the drip taped to Sherlock's thin wrist, flicking it gently. "And hospitals aren't meant to be fun."

"Well, they could bloody afford to be!" Sherlock sighed, finally tossing the book aside on the floor. "The only redemption to be had in this spic and span plain of Inferno is that I don't actually have to travel to work."

"Has Molly been to see you?"

"No." Sherlock's voice lowered. "I've asked several times but she won't come."

"She knows better." John leaned forward a bit in his seat, chuckling lightly. "You'll have her putting her job in a vice. Besides, you're officially on leave until further notice." John fought to lock Sherlock's gaze in his.

"When can I expect that?"

"As soon as you start complying with regulations."

Sherlock allowed an uncomfortable silence to settle in the air before taking up the gauntlet again. John could hear his blood pound softly in his ears.

"Mycroft sent you didn't he?" Sherlock's scathing smile could cut butter.

"No."

"Is that a lie?"

"Not to you, Sherlock." John said quietly. "Never to you."

Sherlock appeared mollified though his defense was still up. He folded his arms across his chest, opening the blue hospital-issue robe slightly. John winced at the trace lines of electric shock pads used not too long ago, angry and red on his pale flesh.

"I had everything under control." Sherlock muttered. John pursed his lips a moment before responding.

"No one held a gun to your head-"

"Exactly." Sherlock interrupted. "No one was holding a gun to my head! Do you know me at all, John?"

John schooled his expression to be as flat as possible.

"Y'know, I've just had a chat with your nurses."

"What have they told you?" Sherlock hissed.

"According to them, you haven't been eating?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched a little, hatefully. "I know my physiology well enough to realize when it must feed! I don't-" Color flooded his hollow cheeks at John's stern expression. He averted his gaze. "I cannot function on someone else's schedule."

"And your meds?"

"That's what landed me here in the first place." Sherlock huffed bitterly.

"It took an entire team three hours to get your heart started again."

"I commend them." Haughtiness. Sherlock was trying to force him into a dead end.

"Lestrade sent them flowers."

"Chivalrous."

The way Sherlock said that word made John's insides clench. He lost his cool sooner than he expected to. _Sherlock 1, John zip. _

"Look, you're being an absolute child, Sherlock! You're only putting on this show because you're here against your will!"

If Sherlock had jumped, stiffened, or even blinked John might have forgiven him. But the daft prat was intent on getting the better of him. Who to show belly first, who to win this round? John felt the loss like a physical blow twisting his gut.

"Surely you didn't come all this way to tell me that." Sherlock stretched. "My brother knew exactly what he was getting into when he signed the commitment papers."

"Were you even conscious then?" John spat.

He could feel the bile rise, feel his nerves tighten and stretch, constricting blood vessels and building heat behind his eyes. Military instincts had always served him well when dealing with the destructively deluded. He'd be damned if he gave Sherlock the satisfaction of watching him unravel. He took a deep breath, prepped himself to start again.

"You're shaking." Sherlock observed. _Sherlock 2, John negative._

"Sherlock." John meant to keep his voice calm but it didn't work and he didn't care. "You can't keep hindering the people who are trying to help you. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you can leave." _And come home._

"I appreciate your sympathies, John. You are truly a devoted friend. Leave the flowers on your way out."

Fuming, John quickly reassessed his approach. Sherlock was right. So far he'd been speaking to him as a friend, a flatmate and equal. His emotions, borne from concern and frustration, were giving Sherlock all the ammunition he needed for his callous mockery of it all.

It was time to change tactics.

"Did you know one of your doctors is seriously considering inducing medical coma to allow your recuperation to go unimpeded?"

"Really?" Sherlock sniffed. "That would be interesting at least."

"It wouldn't." John promised.

"Why are you here exactly?" Pale blue eyes pierced through John's quantifying every minute detail, every crease and involuntary twitch. When John's lips turned up in a smile, he was careful to ensure nothing lurked behind it.

"I'm here to make sure you get well."

"Oh hell!" Sherlock sighed. "Surely you've more creative wastes of time."

John frowned and considered this for a moment.

"No, actually."

"Well provided the ennui doesn't get me first, allow me to assure you I'll be out soon enough to terrorize the neighborhood." Sherlock said venomously, flopping back into his pillows.

"I could help with the ennnui." John kept his voice completely devoid of sympathy. "But first I'll need some opinions from your liver."

Sherlock pushed himself back onto his elbows, eyes narrowed.

"You're only here to humiliate me for breaking your rules. Admit it."

"Alright, Sherlock. I admit it." John pursed his lips and rose from his chair, bending down to pick up his duffel. "You've only got yourself to thank."

"Actually, I've got Mycroft to thank." Sherlock growled. His forehead furrowed when he noticed the array of medical equipment materializing from John's luggage. Pen light, tongue depressor, sphygometer . "John, what on earth-?"

John purposefully snapped on a pair of latex gloves for way of answer. Sherlock's entire body went rigid with contempt.

"The both of you are being so stupidly benign! Do you really think it necessary to go through all this just for the sake of watching me suffer?"

"That's one thing he and I would agree on."

"What?"

"Watching you suffer. Now sit up you noisy git, let's have a listen!" John set the stethoscope in his ears and breathed on the bell to warm it. Sherlock scowled but begrudgingly yanked down the collar of his dressing gown so that John could lean over him.

"You realize there are several people per day who perform this ritual." He hissed when John pressed the metal disc against his chest.

"Stop talking." John said, placing his other hand firmly on Sherlock's shoulder. "Breathe in and hold it"

Sherlock, successfully exasperated into compliance, sucked in a loud inhale. John heard the immediate increase in heart rate as Sherlock's chest swelled. It was shallow, the already nervous rhythm fluttering to a frantic pace. He counted a few seconds until Sherlock's lungs twitched uncomfortably.

"Good." John shifted the bell lower. "Now out." The heart protested in a series of quick, muffled beats before reluctantly laboring on.

"Are you learning anything my chart can't tell you?" Sherlock released in a huff.

"You're altering the charts by making yourself a nuisance." John did not meet his eyes. "Your body can't lie to me. In?"

Sherlock obeyed, redirecting his ire to John's collar. "Had it off with Sarah, then? Got the bed this time." He panted.

"None of your business." John pressed the bell firmly to the far side of Sherlock's ribs. Sherlock's heart skipped once.

"Ah, but that's what makes it so interesting." He said, drawing air into his lungs. He coughed a little on the exhale. "All that medical lot out there tell me is that they haven't had a proper shag in months."

Tugging down the back of Sherlock's dressing gown, John bared his shoulders so he could listen to his lungs. "You're lucky. If it weren't for the wages, those nurses wouldn't put their hands on you."

"You're putting hands on me." Sherlock said through the deep breath he was ordered to take. "You're getting about as invasive as anyone can get." He paused as John shifted the bell once more. "Are my levels acceptable, John?"

John didn't give him the satisfaction of a response. He was a doctor now, not a flatmate nor even a companion and Sherlock was going to respect that.

"Lie down."

Sherlock shifted on the bed, scooting towards the end so that his head could rest on the starched white pillow case. John kept his assessment professional, lifting Sherlock's T-shirt up to his chest and positioning the stethoscope below his navel.

"Breathe normal."

He felt the warm rise and fall of Sherlock's flesh as it lifted gently with his breath, the slight tremor that tensed the muscles of his belly, the anxious hitch. He stole a brief glance at Sherlock's face. His eyes were vacant, staring at the white curtains on the window. He shifted his focus to the faint, low-pitched beat of blood through the aorta. Sherlock's intestines were eerily quiet. No whistles or hitches. Not even a gurgle.

"Well?" Sherlock was impatient.

John stripped off the stethoscope and slung it over his shoulder.

"Breathe in and hold it." John placed both hands on the soft part of Sherlock's abdomen and pressed down gently. "Feel anything?"

Sherlock shook his head. John moved a little closer to his hip and pressed firmer.

Sherlock's breath left him in a surprised gasp.

"Alright. Sit up." John swiped the chart from its holder on the bed, clicked on his red pen and began scribbling. He paused only to absently place a thermometer under Sherlock's tongue

"I've been authorized to make editorial changes. I suppose it would be too much to ask for a urine sample?"

"Piss off." Sherlock growled behind the thermometer. John tossed him a plastic cup.

"After you."

Sherlock swiped it away rudely but got up from the bed, the IV stand complaining after him.

"Take your time." John assured.

Sherlock's only satisfaction was an unnecessarily loud slam of the adjoining restroom door. When he emerged, John politely removed the thermometer and jotted down the results.

"Your heart's working overtime and your bowels haven't much to say which means you're undernourished." He explained as Sherlock burrowed back under the covers, punching his pillows in a sulk. John continued, unaffected.

"You've been neglecting your meds so your blood volume hasn't had a chance to stabilize. You're also running a smidge of temperature." He laid the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead.

"What exactly is a smidge?" Sherlock flinched away.

"A sign your immune system is gearing up for something bigger."

"Tell me John, is it possible to expire from boredom?"

"Only if you're spectacularly untalented." John busied himself with Sherlock's blood pressure. Grasping Sherlock's bicep (Sherlock refused to offer it up willingly), he runched up the sleeve and wrapped the cuff snugly in place.

"I've got to get out of here." Sherlock's wall had begun to crumble, rubbing his eye with his free hand. "There's too much going on out there, my head..." He sighed. "It won't quiet, it won't be still!"

"It might if you'd just take your sodding medication." John ticked off the figures next to Sherlock's vitals, noting the date and time.

"Alright." Sherlock muttered, never looking up.

_Sherlock 2, John 5._ John ripped the cuff off with a triumphant crack.

"Excellent. I'll be back tomorrow to check on your progress. Be civil, speak nicely to the overworked gals who come in to stab you with needles, eat all your pudding and if you are very very good, I'll send Molly up with a turgid forensics report."

Sherlock gave no response which was about what John expected. He packed up his bag, leaving a pack of mints and a crossword puzzle on the night table as an act of charity. When he was finished, he shrugged into his jumper and was about to take off with a salute when Sherlock's wrist shot out faster than lightening and pulled him down onto the mattress.

"Sher-!" John's protest was cut short by a fierce tongue pressed hard and fast, Sherlock's grip on his shoulders like iron. He bucked, tried to get away but Sherlock would not listen. He exhaled deeply into John's mouth as he struggled, let his tongue explore the warmth of John's lips.

John froze when he heard a faint metallic click at the door, his expression of shock and confusion reflected in the face of the day nurse holding a tray of medication.

"Eh, shall I come back-?" She ventured.

Sherlock finally let him go, dabbing at his mouth chastely while John cleared his throat and straightened his jumper.

"Not at all." Sherlock said comfortably. John was speechless as Sherlock politely accepted the small cup of pills, allowing the young lady to adjust his IV and complete her round.

John's breathing was still unsteady, his eyes voicing a silent question.

"Just evening the score, John." Sherlock picked up his book from the floor and buried himself in it once more.


	2. Chapter 2

_So I pondered and thought about ways I could possibly extend this yarn and came to the conclusion that I need no metaphysical catharsis, no twist of pathos and no provocation whatsoever to beat up Sherlock again. Nor do I need any prompting to make John love every second of it. Tacked on and every bit indulgent but then, I say there's no crime in indulgence.  
_

_**THE SCORE- (cont.)**  
_

It came as no surprise at all when the unlisted number buzzed his cell during the first welcome minutes of his lunch. Mycroft never chimed in with good news, certainly with no respect to meal times.

_He's asked for you. Will you come?_

"I'm a bit busy at the moment." The surgery had overbooked. He had just finished sanitizing his hands for another bout of flu-addled primary schoolers. "Day job and all. Might pop in after last shift?"

_You, John, may do what suits you. BP 160 over 95. Latest thermal reading hovering at...*pause* thirty nine. Good day."_

With a click, Mycroft Holmes returned to the convenient ether of Parliament. John clenched his fists and shut his eyes.

"Bloody _bastard_...!"

What he resented most about his dealings with the brothers Holmes was his lack of say. Mycroft was mocking him if he was implying he had any consideration for John's free will at all.

But he had to admit, Mycroft was the more socially adaptable of the two. Sherlock would spike a fever out of sheer spite if he could command it. John was able to rationalize this behavior, of course. The great idiot was getting his comeuppance. He was in hospital, presumably in the best of hands. Another clinician in white had reviewed Sherlock's stats, noted the infection and had taken an appropriate course of antibiotics. Surely the world need not stop for this.

He took a quick glimpse outside at the sizable crowd of runny-nosed, fidgety toddlers waiting on the hard plastic chairs with their overanxious keepers. Poor things were miserable, confounded and would probably be better off tucked away in bed. What kind of unprofessional wanker would hand the lot over just to appease a self-absorbed, masochistic, more like deranged-

_Deranged. _Oh hell, who was he to talk?

Damn him.

His fingers found the buzzer before his brain gave the green light.

"Sarah? Could you possibly cover my shift? I've an emergency over at Bart's."

Sherlock was damned lucky he'd got the bed last night.

The RN on duty nodded him in a bit too quickly when he arrived. _As though she'd been expecting..._

"Dr. Watson, is it? You're here for consultation on-"

"Holmes. Yes, Sherlock Holmes. Any changes?"

Raised eyebrows. Bit not good.

"Temp spiked early Wednesday morning, just after he'd begun eating with the meal shift. Advising dosed him up with penicillin all day today and yesterday but I'm afraid there's been rather slow improvement so far."

"Broad spectrum antibiotics take a few days to kick in. Any dodgy reactions to the anti-depressants or the Disulfiram?"

"None that we've noted, sir. But we're on close watch. Not easy to tell with that one, is there?"

She made eloquent points for someone operating on 3 hours sleep. John steeled himself when he reached Sherlock's door. Sooner than expected, it was time for round two. If Sherlock thought he would be gaining anything by throwing himself across death's door he had another thing coming.

He didn't look directly at Sherlock once past the threshold. That would end him too quickly. Instead he made a purposeful beeline for the chart hanging at the foot of the bed. Surrounding himself in data and figures softened the blow, gave him a tangible weapon against what he would read in Sherlock's glazed eyes and sunken face.

A quick scan of vitals told him what he already knew. Though Sherlock had kept to his word and acquiesced to being cared for, his immune system had had the last word. The smidge of temperature from before had shot up steadily before tapering off to a steady burn. His heart rhythm was now in the limelight having been put under sustained stress for so long. The constant blip of the monitoring apparatus informed him. _You're on thin ice, mister._

John chewed his lip, staring intently at the electric waves flowing across the screen, trying to read some semblance of order in the pattern of peaks and valleys, to do anything but...

"John...?"

Blast. The stiff was awake.

Sherlock looked all the worse for it. Pale and damp with sweat, several cups of crushed ice and a plastic bowl of orange jelly sat ignored on his night table. John noted the addition of several antipyretics tacked onto the drip. John shut the chart folder and seated himself, lacing his fingers together pensively. Smugness had no place here, he reminded. Sherlock's temperature was sky high, he'd be dazed and monosyllabic at best.

"Hate to say I told you so." Sherlock's voice, weak and gravelly from having gone in and out of medicated sleep, still managed to be mocking.

"That's my line." John found a clean hospital flannel strewn about the ignored white foam cups and dabbed at the dampness gathered at Sherlock's throat, careful not to disturb the leads stuck to his skin.

"This is... far more fun... than a coma." Sherlock's smile was ghastly. John shifted uneasily. Sick people on drugs were not his favorite people, let alone Sherlock.

"Yes well, s'pose it is with the meds you're on. You get to spend half the day in Honalee."

Sherlock breathed in deeply as though speaking took effort, and waited several beats before speaking.

"Ah yes, plasticine porters." He closed his eyes, his smile vanishing . "Evenings are...less tolerable."

Without thinking, John's palm went to Sherlock's forehead to feel the simmering heat beneath his fingers.

"Nothing a little penicillin won't nick." He was ashamed at his tone as soon as he'd said it. "You've really put yourself through the grinder this time around, Sherlock."

Sherlock responded by shuddering. John pulled the blankets up higher.

"Do you need another blanket?"

"No, just a chill." Sherlock said dismissively. "It'll pass. Soon it'll be unbearable again."

John picked up the nurse call button on Sherlock's night stand.

"This right here can solve all that. Nurses don't get paid to toss pills at you all day."

"Yes but I don't..." Sherlock swallowed. "...I can't abide, John... their hands..."

"Whose hands?"

Sherlock's eyes drifted to the door.

"Oh, them..." John murmured, rubbing his thumb slowly back and forth across Sherlock's brow. "Well, can't speak for them. They're just incompletes what haven't seen a proper shag in months."

Sherlock looked about to respond but changed his mind. John watched his eyes glaze over, his face go slack and peaceful. His pupils were darting back and forth with the kinetic frenzy of his mind. John felt his smile fade. Sherlock had stiffened beneath his hand, going slightly catatonic.

"Sherlock?"

"I often wonder what dying feels like." Sherlock said to the ceiling at the same time John's insides clenched with dread.

"Shush. I can't stand medicated conversations."

For the first time Sherlock's eyes met his and actually saw him.

"This isn't the fever, John. It's real. Seize the day while I still look through this lucid window of consciousness. In another hour I'll be singing "Oo da Lally" and pissing myself."

John considered himself properly silenced.

"So, you want to know what dying feels like." He repeated.

"Yes."

"Why not just ask me?"

"You?" Sherlock's brow furrowed.

"Afghanistan. 2003. And there I was surrounded by half the American fleet, bleeding a pool out my shoulder and wondering whether the Yanks would be civil minded enough to mail my remains first class."

"You talk of being gunned down, shot in action." Sherlock said dully. "I'm speaking on more pedantic terms."

John blinked. "Pardon?"

"I've always...believed...I would be in control...of my own death." Speaking was more laborious now. John flicked his gaze to the digital reading on the EKG. Sherlock's heart rate was consistent if abnormally high. It did not spike or dip with the flow of words.

"Reasonable." John agreed if only to keep a hold on the conversation. "Morbid? But reasonable." _Keep Sherlock here. _

"The drugs are party favors. A diversion. A lark. Coming close to the brink..." Sherlock paused as though attempting to untangle his thoughts. John stopped breathing for a bit until Sherlock surged on in a rush of breathless monologue.

"James Barrie once wrote that to die would be an awfully big adventure. My research over time has shown that this is not the case. To really get at the heart of those who would cause death, those who would bring it upon themselves, one needs to spend time walking those lines and THAT is the adventure!"

"Bloody hell." John;s voice was reduced to a whisper thought he was still attempting at levity. "You're scaring a man whose had tea with the Taliban."

"This should come as no surprise." Sherlock's gaze widened. "Genius doesn't come without a price. All that makes me who..._what_ I am..."

"Lennon was the walrus." John pointed out.

"Who are you babbling about?" Sherlock paused, irritated. "John, do make sense please."

"Nevermind. Carry on?"

Sherlock's dams broke, words pouring from him in a barely coordinated rush.

"What I've been trying to say all this time is that there are periods within which I get so bored that even this..." Sherlock patted his own chest. "...even this feels like some unshakable weight, dragging me down or into something. Flesh. A body. A stupid, hulking, ill-fitted vessel. I should be...I should be the filaments of a fiberoptic, the fuel lines of a jet engine. I should be locked up behind glass forever! There's only one way to stop it all, John. One way and that's..." He paused breathlessly. John's hand slid unconsciously to the pulse at his throat, timing. From the monitor, the insistent blips were slowly rising.

"Shhh! Enough." John pleaded.

"...the drugs. The only way to get somewhere without moving."

"I said that's enough, Sherlock." John placed a firm hand on his chest, pressing down as though it might keep him grounded. Sherlock, however, already seemed drained, eyes fluttering closed, breath slowing to a faint rasp. John wrapped some of the crushed ice in the flannel and held it against his burning cheek.

"You're on fire, Sherlock. You haven't an inkling of sense about you."

Whether John intended or not, the gauntlet clattered to the floor.

"Haven't I?" Sherlock's pale gaze locked hard on him, scanned lightening quick up and down. "You've skipped lunch."

"Mycroft called."

"Predictable. You were about to have a run in with several ripe flu patients. "

"Well, I figured why bother with a crowd of petulant infants when I could be looking after just one?"

"You must send Sarah flowers. Lillies. She likes those, named after her mum. Pink. To match the curtains."

"How-?"

They were interrupted by a large tattooed Russian RN who eyed the pile of ignored crushed ice with disdain.

"No meaning interrupt you ladies in middle of intimate chat but time to take vitals."

"John, meet Boris. He's been assigned to my unfortunate upkeep. Tender as a lamb."

Boris shook his head at the ignored bowl of jelly.

"Don't listen him. He crazy."

Sherlock raised an eloquent eyebrow.

"Not nearly as much as the method by which you obtained your working permits, Mr. Nikov."

"You want out this place? Fine by me, no problem. I charge you extra for coffin, we call it day."

Sherlock grinned without retort. Boris bent to check the EKG reading and took Sherlock's wrist, sliding a thermometer under his tongue.

"You better decide one way or the other. Stay or go. If you stay, is fine too, no problem so long as I see ice go in you and not wasting on table. Look at this, he no even take little jell-o!"

"I despise gelatin." Sherlock wrenched his wrist away.

Boris looked imploringly at John.

"You see? Impossible! He say he no like popsicle? I bring jelly. Now he no eat jelly, I bring soup. After soup, what I should bring? Boric acid?"

Sherlock looked intrigued. John shot him down.

"Thank you, er, Boris. But I believe our friend here will get on fine with the jelly. So long as its green."

"Sure, sure, green." Boris took back the thermometer, silently jotted down a few notes in the chart. A quick listen to Sherlock's lungs and he was gone in a flurry of Slavic discontent.

"Now there's a bloke in need of shagging." John commented.

Sherlock smiled. "I shudder to think."

"Then don't. Stop, I mean. Stop...thinking." John swiftly leaned down, pressing his lips gently against Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock stiffened as though he'd been stabbed but John did not pull back or apologize.

Sherlock's body was rigid against him, breathing halted. John could feel on his lips how feverish he was, feel his initial recoil at the unexpected contact.

Had no one ever touched him in this way before? Had the only kisses known to Sherlock been hungry? Wanting?

His mum had always used her lips to test his skin for fever. She still did, in fact, no matter how old he got. A hug to reassure and keep his dizzy head in place. A quick peck to send him back to bed. John could not imagine Sherlock being young or flexible enough to receive such gestures from anyone, particularly not another bloke but then, Sherlock on the receiving end of anything was a puzzle to consider.

First time, however, did not send him reeling backward in disgust. John squeezed Sherlock's shoulder reassuringly.

"I'll stop by tomorrow." John whispered against his skin, stirring the damp curls. Sherlock nodded, still speechless. "Sleep."

_Sherlock nil, John tilt. _


End file.
